Dancing Through It: My Journey in the Ballet

by Ringer, Jenifer

  For me, the ultimate experience of “facing away” is being a mother, and it’s what I’ve loved most in my life so far. I feel so blessed every day I’ve been allowed to be a mother, and I’ll never regret the hard work that goes into it because, oh, what joy it brings. And not because it is any easier than my “day job.” Being a ballerina, with all of its difficulties and anxieties, in no way prepared me for some of the rigors of motherhood; I’d never cared for something so utterly and completely until I had a child. The one thing my dance experience has taught me, however, is that there is no way I can ever be a perfect mother, so every day is just an exercise in doing my best with the situations presented to me.

  When my daughter, Grace, was around three years old, James and I began talking about trying to get pregnant again. Grace had brought us more gladness than we could have ever imagined, and we wanted to expand our family. Grace began her second year of preschool the same fall as Sugar Plumgate, and after all of the hubbub settled, we made a plan to “open the doors” again in the spring and see what God might have in store for us. We knew that we wanted one more child, and since I was turning thirty-eight in the spring of 2011, time seemed to be running out. Becoming pregnant again would mean missing another nine months of dancing, but since I was rarely injured, I hadn’t missed any performances in years. The time seemed right for us to try for another child.

  In late August we were thrilled to learn I was pregnant again. I danced the fall season with City Ballet, feeling the same symptoms of tiredness and nausea I’d felt with Grace. I showed a baby bump a little earlier with this second baby, so costumes got tighter a little quicker. I also felt more tired; with a three-year-old at home wanting constant attention, I didn’t have the luxury of all the naps I’d taken when I was pregnant with Grace. There were a couple of bath times with Grace when I felt myself nodding off and would snap awake when my head hit the side of the tub. I also tended to fall asleep while putting Grace to bed. Grace, who was a precocious reader, now read her night-night books to me, and I was often awakened by her tapping my head at the end of the book and saying, “Did you miss the story, Mommy? Should I read it from the beginning?” I assured her that I’d heard her reading it in my dreams.

  I stopped dancing after the fall season of 2011 but kept busy teaching at the School of American Ballet, filling in as a teacher for company class and helping to teach a new cast my role in Alexei Ratmansky’s Russian Seasons. I enjoyed the teaching opportunities because I found I always learned a lot myself whenever I taught, no matter what the level of the dancers. I also loved sharing Russian Seasons with the dancers new to the ballet because it was such a special ballet to me. I’d felt so inspired by Alexei, while still feeling like I was investing my own personality into the part, and I was eager to pass my love for the ballet on to other dancers. Though I was sad not to be dancing it, I got a lot of satisfaction out of examining it in a different way and explaining it to the new cast.

  I also spent time writing this book and would find quiet places to sit and write for a couple of hours while our babysitter, Michelle, was taking care of Grace. All in all, I kept pretty busy, and my due date approached unexpectedly rapidly. We found out we would be having a boy and decided to call him Luke Douglas, the Douglas after my father. James and I decided to make our foyer into Luke’s bedroom, which meant a whole new round of renovations. Oh, the machinations we New Yorkers have to go through to fit children into our small spaces. Luke’s “room” would only fit a crib and a chair, but at least he would have his own space.

  With Luke’s pregnancy, I had a few false alarms when I thought I might be going into labor, and I’d gone to the hospital unnecessarily twice. Another such false alarm happened ten days before my due date, and I was once again sent home. Throughout that day, I was having contractions, but I felt like the Woman Who Cried Baby and wanted to be sure that I was actually going to be delivering a baby before I went back to the hospital again. I lingered at home, reluctant to admit that I was really in labor, until the contractions became so regular and uncomfortable that it was obvious that it was time to go and give birth for real.

  It was a good thing I decided to go when I did, because we barely made it to the hospital in time. Fortunately, my mother had come to town to watch Grace and help us adjust to life with a new baby, so James and I went to the hospital right after Grace went to bed. We walked through the hospital doors at 8:00 p.m., and Luke was lying on my chest, screaming, by 9:30. He was bluish and swollen but healthy and so very precious. It all happened so fast that after he was born, the nurse blinked at me and said, “I need to check you in. What is your name?”

  Getting back into shape after both babies was ridiculously hard, but I’d done it once before, and so had a lot of dancers. I gained about fifty pounds with each pregnancy, even though doctors recommend gaining only about twenty-five to thirty-five pounds. The first time around, I just enjoyed myself and didn’t think about the weight gain at all. With the second pregnancy, I was determined not to gain as much weight and to stay in better condition so that I wouldn’t have such a hard time getting back into shape. Despite my efforts, my weight gain was the same, so perhaps that’s just what my body does when it is pregnant.

  After Grace, I joined a gym and would spend two hours a day there after my ballet class, taking cycling classes and doing weight training. In addition, I would push Grace in the stroller for hour-long walks along the Hudson River. By the time Luke came, James and I were trying to save money, and I didn’t want to spend our resources on a gym. I jogged and speed-walked in the park and went up and down the seven flights of stairs in my apartment building.

  I also took ballet class, of course—so many little muscles we use in ballet are not used in everyday life, and I had to rediscover and strengthen all of them. Some days I thought I’d never dance again, and I certainly felt like giving up often, but I kept going, telling myself to do what I needed to do each day and that eventually my efforts would bear fruit.

  The determination to regain my dancing form, of course, brought back to life some of my old feelings about my own image, and my body. I still, and probably always will, struggle with perfectionism. It may be part of what makes me a good performer, but it is also the part of me that I’m always trying to temper, the voice that I’m trying to override with other, God-centered priorities. I often feel that I’m trying to do too many things in a day, that none of them are things I’m doing well enough, and that everything ends up being accomplished in a subpar fashion. When those thoughts creep in, I have to remind myself that I need to depend on God for my strength and resources and that His grace is the only way I can make it through the day. My strivings, without God, amount to nothing.

  In terms of dancing and weight, I know that there is a standard image that’s still upheld in the ballet world, and I know that I’m one of those dancers, miraculously, who breaks that standard, which isn’t an easy or comfortable place to be in much of the time. While I dance at a good, lean weight now, I still don’t have the too-skinny look that is the norm for ballerinas. If I were more focused on ballet and more willing to make certain sacrifices of time and will, would I be a better dancer or have had a better career? Probably. If I were bonier, would I have gotten more critical praise or been cast in better, more serious roles? I really don’t know about that. But I do know for certain that I would be insane. I believe our souls are wired to seek something to worship, and for me, ultimate focus on ballet would have eventually made ballet my god again. It would have, I believe, destroyed me. And to me, it isn’t worth the cost.

  I have hopes that the ballet world will change and become more welcoming to all body types; it is so amazing to see dancers of every shape using their bodies to move to music in such extreme and beautiful ways. Things are changing, even in the lean ranks of New York City Ballet. Every body type is represented among the elite ballet dancers of this generation, but those who don’t fit the mold often feel
dissatisfied with their appearance. I’ve talked with many young dancers who struggle with the fact that their bodies don’t meet the ballet standard. And I know that change doesn’t happen in a hurry, especially in a profession so wrapped up in a particular look or shape or image. But I do hope that the dancers themselves can become healthier and not give ballet aesthetics power over their own self-esteem.

  In the fall of 2010, the magazine Dance Spirit asked me to write a letter to my teenage self. It distills what I wish I had known when I entered the ballet world at the age of sixteen, but it also contains lessons I remind myself of on a daily basis even now.

  Dear Jenifer,

  When you choose dancers whom you want to emulate, either as artists or as people, don’t feel like you have to be exactly like them. You are unique and have gifts that were given to you alone. Explore those gifts and relish them, even as you appreciate the gifts that you see in others.

  You will be taught to seek perfection, and while it’s all right to strive for brilliance, no one will ever be perfect. If you feel that perfection is the only way to succeed, you will only ever feel like a failure. Focus instead on artistic interpretation, musicality and understanding technique, and remember that if you keep joy in your dancing, others will feel joy when they watch you.

  Much of your time will be spent in dance studios lined with mirrors. Sometimes it will feel like all you see are the things about your appearance that you find ugly. Try not to focus on the parts of you that you hate—accept those parts and discover what about yourself you find attractive. Remember that God gave you this body as your instrument, and to Him, it is beautiful.

  Finally, while a great deal of your life will revolve around dance, it does not define you and is not the source of your self-esteem. There is a large and rich world out there, and you are a multifaceted individual who can get involved in many different pursuits. Continue learning about everything you can, and if you’re feeling down, help somebody else. It will make you feel better. [As seen in Dance Spirit.]

  —

  After Luke was born in April, and ever so slowly, my weight did come off, and I started to feel like a dancer again. My goal was to make it back to the stage for City Ballet’s fall season, but there were no ballets going in that season’s repertory that I danced. I would have to wait for Nutcracker.

  I did make it back for two performances of the Sugar Plum Fairy the last week of December 2012. It seemed like it took a lot more work on my part to make it back from the second baby, and there was an added pressure because I was returning to a role that was not only technically demanding but also required that I appear in a tutu—no long skirts to hide under. And there was, of course, the added ghost of Sugar Plumgate hanging over my memories of Nutcracker.

  But I had a wonderful time. It was great to be back onstage, and I was once again dancing with Jared, whom I trusted to see me through flawlessly. I had very high expectations for myself: I wanted to look and dance as if I’d never left, and prove that I could get back in shape once again. Perhaps I was being a little too prideful; my first performance back after Luke had a significant bump, literally.

  The very first thing the Sugar Plum Fairy dances in Balanchine’s Nutcracker is her solo. She arrives onstage in the beginning of act 2 with the children playing Angels, leads them in a long, gliding circle, and then dances to the famous music played over and over in every store during Christmastime. Before my entrance, I was feeling more nerves than usual, but once I got onstage, I looked at the little Angels’ faces and felt myself relax. I pictured them actually being giant real angels and imagined that the theater was God’s throne room—I would dance for Him. As the solo went along, I felt comfortable and strong and started thinking, This is fun! I feel great!

  Then, just before a moment when the music stops and then changes to a faster rhythm, there is a simple jump, a pas de chat, that takes the Sugar Plum to center stage front. I thought, I’m going to jump really high!

  I didn’t. Something happened on the takeoff, and I landed on my bottom, with a thud and a bounce, front and center.

  It was shocking. And embarrassing. And, well, funny. I stood up to resume dancing and got applause for my recovery. I finished out the solo with no further mishaps. When I got offstage someone joked to me, “Well, after that, you can do no wrong! The audience is going to love you no matter what!”

  And I think maybe God was helping me to remember that I don’t need to be perfect. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. I can just dance—yes, I have to, and want to, put the work into it and do my best, but at the end of the day, once I’m onstage, the performance is about just dancing.

  —

  As I turn forty, I’ve returned to a place in my dancing where I’m simply appreciating the experiences I’ve had both onstage and off, and my thoughts turn again to Dances at a Gathering. Jerry gave his dancers a wonderful gift with the last movement of his ballet. Dances does not end with a robustly uplifting finale in the traditional sense. The music is soft and contemplative, and all the dancers from the ballet, together onstage for the only time, wander in from the wings slowly, walking and pausing as if to look at and remember the space that they are inhabiting. At one point, the Brown Boy crouches down and softly presses the floor with his hand as if he is touching something extremely precious; all the dancers stop to watch him and consider what he has done.

  Then there is a moment in the music when it seems that something momentous has suddenly taken place offstage. All the dancers stop where they are and look to the front left corner of the stage. They then stand still and follow an unseen something with their eyes and faces as it travels up the left side, across the top of the theater, and then down the right side of the stage. Next, something else, also invisible, high in the center of the space in front of them captures their attention. They all gaze at it, and some take a few steps forward to get closer to whatever it is. Then the dancers slowly let their gaze drop down until their chins have lowered toward their chests.

  The music then resolves itself into a melody that sounds like dawn and hard-won knowledge and growth after a loss. The dancers all do a very simple port de bras together, lifting their arm across their bodies in an arc and gently opening their palms to the sky to catch something hopeful in their hands. They move to the back of the stage and separate into two groups, one of men and one of women. The groups gaze at each other across the stage, then exchange bows of greeting. They reach to their partners, in some cases dancers with whom they have not yet danced in the ballet, and then form a circle to bow to each other again. Finally, arm in arm, the couples begin walking, off to another experience, as the curtain lowers.

  Everybody seems to have their own explanation for what exactly it is that we’re supposed to be seeing when we all stop and turn to gaze upward in the finale. Even Jerry himself changed his description from time to time. I was told we were following a flock of birds as they winged across the sky at twilight. Another time we were told we saw a zeppelin in the distance. The explanation for the finale that resonates most with me is that this is the last time we will be in this particular space, and we’re remembering the experiences we had there. After being a part of Dances for so many years, I treasure each performance and am often moved to tears during the finale because I never know when it could be the last time I perform it. Injuries could happen, or it could go out of the repertory for a few years and not return before I’ve retired.

  I’ve used the finale of Dances to say good-bye to certain theaters on tour, knowing that I probably will not be coming back to them again, and to individual dancers with whom I might not perform again. And every performance of Dances is in fact a last of sorts, because each combination of cast, pianist, and audience is unique and can never be repeated. For an hour, we live a small life together, and when it is over, we all move on to experience other things. It is bittersweet because we have shared such a rich time together, yet w
e know that it will never happen in exactly that way again. Dances at a Gathering is a complete journey, but one whose ending is actually the beginning of another path. It lifts up both the dancer and the viewer, urging them to relish life with all of its passions, losses, and light and then to have the courage to face a future filled with even more of the same, yet different, experiences.

  I feel the same way about my dance career as I begin contemplating the end of it. In the Bible, it says that David danced before the Lord with all his might (2 Samuel 6:14). It does not say that he danced before the Lord with perfect execution; it just says that he danced with all his might. And I’ve been given the gift and the chance to do the same. I feel so grateful that I’ve been allowed to dance for a living, and grateful for the lessons I’ve learned and am still learning as I travel through this ballet world. I would change nothing that I went through, because it has made me who I am. I would not have the blessings I have now without the trials I experienced before. I’m grateful that I get to share this gift with the people around me, and that I get to reflect the gift back to God. When I look in the mirror now, I see God’s grace and mercy accepting and eradicating my failures and imperfections. For it is my Savior, inside me, who is beautiful, and what I see shining back at me from the mirror now, covering all of my brokenness, is Him.

  And how I want to burst when my five-year-old daughter hears some favorite piece of music in our apartment and rushes toward me in her Supergirl costume, hair and bare feet flying, arms outstretched and crying, “Dance with me, Mommy!” I pick her up and twirl her around, the two of us doing some inspired mother-daughter moves, and then we turn to include my one-year-old son, who shrieks and chortles as he watches us and does the “toddler bounce” on his short, chubby legs.